It was self exile, both feet hidden under suitcases. It was darkness and the sound of sticks rubbing for fire. It was wilderness, not a graveyard, the longing for a kiss in a dream.
The seven-page eponymous opening poem in Robin Messing’s gentle and fierce new collection is an elegaic walk across a dreamscape of family, love, and loss, where you find
a naked sister leaking perfume, her sweetness a funeral, her songs like dress-up with spiky high heels. You hold tightly knowing her arms are broken, her dress smudged with lipstick, her will singular, horrifying, her beauty one day to be mourned.